


Silence

by daisybelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grief, Kilts, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:55:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybelle/pseuds/daisybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns to his grandfather's hut to recover from Sherlock's suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valeria2067](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/gifts).



The silence is deafening. Every little noise sounds like a cannon. Putting the keys on the sideboard, toeing his shoes off, opening the box with the gun, the shrill sound of the answering machine. John listens to the voice of another journalist attempting his luck with promises and threats. He never answers them. He seldom answers his phone anymore, by now the ringing is strange in his ears. As strange as the silence in his new flat. There is no traffic sound as in Baker Street. No noise from the customers at Speedy’s. No hurried footsteps on the seventeen stairs.

 

All he has now is silence and the familiar weight of his gun in his hand. He thinks about what kind of noise it will make if he simply pulls the trigger. He tries to remember the last time when he has fired it, but that is a lifetime ago. When silence wasn’t this grey burden. When silence was something he wished for after long sleepless nights, following a madman with no regard for his (or his friend’s) body’s needs. When silence seemed desirable.

 

Now he couldn’t bear it. That’s why he never repairs the dropping tap in the kitchen or complains about the loud TV sounds from the neighbours. Or why the answering machine is always on loud even if he is never interested in returning the calls.

 

The click when he unloads the gun is familiar now, a daily reminder of everything that is different. It has become his new routine. Getting up, making tea, having an appointment with Ella, not talking with Ella, coming home, getting his gun. Until today he has never gone further, has never pointed the gun at his own head or taken it in the mouth. When the temptation almost grows unbearable he will unload it, put it back in its box. The box – a gift from Sherlock. The only thing he kept. Well, this and the money Sherlock had left him.

 

He hasn’t been able to touch the skull or the microscope or the knife which hads always held the mail. They all had meant something to Sherlock, but money has never interested the detective; it was just printed paper, nothing else. When John discovered the sum in his bank account, he wondered why Sherlock had needed a flatmate, but this mystery was nothing compared to the mystery of his suicide. John has replayed this particular memory countless times, has dreamt of this day almost every night, but he isn’t one step nearer to understanding it than he was back then looking up to his friend.

 

The answering machine starts again, startling him out of his thoughts. He realises that he is still holding the gun in his hand. It would be so easy, loading it, killing the silence with one pull on the trigger. It won’t take much. He forces himself to lay it back in the box, to place the clip beside it, closing the box. The sound of the lock has something final to it.

 

 

This night he dreams of the hut in the woods. In his dream he can see the green of the trees, sun rays streaming through the leaves, hears the voice of his grandfather advising him how to hold a rifle. It is one of the rare nights when he sleeps peacefully. It is also one of the few mornings, he is glad to remember his dream.

 

Packing his bag takes no time at all; he even remembers to cancel his daily appointment with Ella before he rushing to King’s Cross. The train ride to Edinburgh takes him almost five hours, the bus journey to the Highlands another three. When he finally arrives in the village where his grandfather has lived and died, it is already dark. The last steps to his destination bring back more memories from his childhood and teenager years. Knocking on a door that hasn’t changed during the last fifteen years since he has been here, it feels almost like coming home.

 

“I expected you sooner.”

 

If John thought about Graeme’s first words, he certainly wouldn’t have thought of this. He stares in the ageless face in front of him, searching for changes but can’t find anything. Only those wise green eyes under bushy eyebrows, the big nose and the beard that was grey for as long as he could remember. The elder man’s body seems a bit more slouched, but is understandable for a man of his age. Suddenly John feels his eyes burning and wants nothing more than to get lost in a comforting embrace by this man, smelling of tea and tobacco and Scotch.

 

He is gestured impatiently inside, the bag taken out of his hand. The house seems smaller since his last visit. As usual a big fire is roaring in the living room, bathing the room in a warm orange. John sits down in one of the armchairs at the fire, his host returning from the kitchen with a steaming bowl which is placed in John’s hands.

 

“Eat. And then sleep. I’ll drive you to the hut tomorrow morning.”

 

It is a strange feeling being ordered around. Nothing he isn’t used to, this man has shooed him around after his grandfather’s death, the army was also very much in favour of orders and Sherlock … John stops his train of thought right there. Scotland has nothing to do with Sherlock, Scotland is about him. The home of his family, of his grandfather. The man who has inspired him to become an army doctor, who has left him the hut in the woods and in a way Graeme. Graeme who always seems to be one of the last druids, knowing far more things than his ageless eyes should see. The last assistant of John’s grandfather who took care of a teenager when said grandfather died and who dutifully has an eye on the hunting hut. They both know that John’s grandfather would have left the hut the Graeme if there was any chance that the man would accept it. Instead he chose to take care of the hut and the remains of the Watson family when they come to Scotland. Now only John and Harry are left, but his sister has never cared much for the Highlands, always more of a town girl or heading to the next pub.

 

With a sigh John eats the last spoon of his soup. He hasn’t realised how hungry he was and how cold. The fire warms him and the tiredness that is always with him these days creeps upon him. It takes no mind reader or druid to read the tell-tale signs of fatigue. After his first yawn John is led to the guest room he has already occupied as a child and sleeping only minutes later.

 

When John wakes up after a thankfully dreamless night, he can tell by the light filtering through the curtains that it is still early morning. But the smell of fresh coffee is already penetrating the air. He allows himself some more moments in the comfort of the warm bed, lost in childhood memories, before more recent events invade this moment of obliviousness. When he enters the kitchen, he is greeted by a well-laid table and an inquiring look. Whatever Graeme sees, he doesn’t comment on it, simply greets him ‘Good Morning’ and takes the seat opposite of John. They don’t speak, but it is a companiable silence, born out of many mornings together in almost forgotten times. John is relieved to notice the different quality of quietness, which is prolonged by the washing up and loading the car.

 

The way to the hut takes another half an hour. They drive slowly through the forest road and John feels a strange combination of familiarity and alienness. Sometimes he gets the impression that he knows a particular tree or rock and other parts look to him as if he sees them for the first time. He is thankful that Graeme is driving him, he is pretty sure he would have got lost several crossroads ago.

 

The hut seems smaller than he remembers, but he is relieved to see that almost nothing is changed on the inside. A new kettle in the cooking area, another rug in front of the fireplace. Through the right door he can see the bed, covered with a green-white duvet. He knows that behind the left door is a small bathroom, one of the last amenities his grandfather had installed. The sewage plant is behind the house. Graeme unloads the car – John’s bag and a basket full of vegetables find their way in the house. The ex-army doctor knows that the cabinets are full of groceries, stored here for an unexpected guest or a lost wanderer who needs shelter. He wonders under which category he belongs.

 

“Do you need me to stay?”

 

John is tempted to say yes, to seek the comfort of his almost grandfather, but he shakes his head. This is different from London, he will be alone but somehow the silence here is lighter and with more colours. Graeme just nods.

 

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

He is not quite sure what he is thanking the old man for. For taking care of him all those years back, taking care of him now, taking care of the hut. In the end it doesn’t matter, the other seems to understand perfectly what swirls in John’s head without the need for clarification.

 

John listens to the sound of the car driving away; soon the only thing he can hear is the whisper of the wind in the leaves and the sound of his own breathing. He tries to match it with the up and down of the wind, but he never succeeds. It’s a little surprising to realise that he has no idea what to do next. Although this is not the surprising part, the surprising part is him wanting to do something next. It feels like planning ahead, nothing he had bothered with during the past weeks.

 

In the end he takes a walk through the wood. It’s a little embarrassing that he finds himself breathless after only a short amount of time, but he hadn’t any chance for outdoor walks in London. Every of his steps was harassed by journalists or curious people who recognised him. He never knew how much he missed just walking in fresh air.

 

He spends the day outside, walking in circles around the hut to get the feeling of the area back. One time he thinks he has found a hiding place from his childhood, he remembers sitting there and watching Harry looking for him. He smiles at the memory; it’s a strange feeling, as if his face muscles have forgotten how to smile.

 

When he returns to the hut, he manages to cook something. It’s his first self-cooked meal since Sherlock’s death. It’s not his first unfinished meal since Sherlock’s death. He tidies up his mess, but soon there is nothing more left to do. He spends the rest of the day sitting in the garden and watching the shadows grow larger.

 

The next morning Graeme is back, tsking at the little amount of food that has vanished, but he says nothing. Instead he takes him on a walk through the forest. He tells him about the traces of a deer fight he had found several weeks ago, or the flooding of the little brook. He speaks about the people in the village, people John has once known, but that are now only blurry faces to strange names. When they return to the hut, Graeme cooks. John has still no appetite, but he manages to empty his plate. Graeme’s satisfied smile makes him wonder if this is how Sherlock had always felt, when he had insisted on food. It’s early afternoon when the old man leaves with the promise to return the next morning.

 

They built up a routine from that point on. Graeme will come in the morning and they wander. Sometimes in silence but most of the time the older man speaks. About his surgery that he has now sold to a younger doctor, about his late wife, about his late dog. John listens. When they return, Graeme cooks for him, before he has the afternoon for himself. John knows he is watched as well as he had known that Mycroft has kept tabs on him in London. But somehow he doesn’t mind it as much as he had with Sherlock’s brother. Maybe because he is used to Graeme’s care, maybe because he still feels the anger about Mycroft’s betrayal. He doesn’t think about it too much, he tries to heal and to start something like a life again; he doesn’t want to contemplate too much about London and those eighteen months and especially not the last days.

 

He sleeps better, but the nightmares are still frequent. Sometimes he wakes up from his own screams. When it happens, he just sits in the garden and waits for the morning and Graeme. On those days the silence around him turns almost grey again. Those are the days he doesn’t really bother to shave. When he looks in the mirror, he is surprised every time how many grey spots he can find in his stubble. He thinks about growing a beard, but usually after one week the face staring back at him is too strange for his own taste.

 

After two weeks John talks the first time about Afghanistan. Graeme listens with solemn silence, he is better at listening than Ella. He never offers platitudes, only a reassuring grab on the shoulder when John recounts a particularly bad day.

 

After three weeks Graeme brings the kilt. John recognises it immediately, the Watson tartan with its blue and green and the yellow and red stripes. He is surprised that he still manages to put it on correctly and when he sees himself in the mirror, a different man is watching back. He can see his grandfather in the mirror, recognising him from old photographs. When he tells Graeme about it the other man looks at him as if he has gone mad. It reminds him very much of Sherlock’s ‘idiot’-glares.

 

After four weeks John returns to the village for the first time. After all this time in the solitude of the hut the village seems crowded although it is hardly comparable to London. They go to the pub in the evening and it’s strange to be among all those people who all know his name, but don’t ask about his dead best friend.

 

The next day, John speaks for the first time of Sherlock. He manages three sentences before his eyes begin to burn and his vision gets blurry. Two more sentences and he finds himself in a hug that he remembers from so long ago, his tears streaming down his cheeks. He utters not a single more sentence that day. Graeme gets the Scotch and when John vomits in the little bathroom he feels awfully alive for the first time.

 

It takes two more months to talk about Sherlock’s suicide. Two months during which they slowly change their pattern. Graeme won’t come to the hut every day and John will visit the village to get the groceries on his own. Or to talk to people. Slowly it begins to feel normal to talk to people without any reference to Sherlock. It takes him a while to understand that nobody here has a secret agenda. When they ask him questions, they ask about him. He is not even sure if they have ever heard of the name Sherlock Holmes.

 

During the first winter storm the generator dies. It’s the first time since he is in the Highlands that he is bound to the house, that he can’t leave. He sits in the darkness and stares at the rifle on the wall, the one his grandfather taught him shooting with. He has avoided noticing it, which is a difficult task in a hut that sometimes seems too small for one person, but he was always great in denial.

 

‘I’m not gay.’

 

Unbidden those words enter his memory. No he isn’t, has never been, but in the Scottish loneliness there is no denying that Sherlock had something that leaves him wondering. They had shared moments that could have led to so much more, but neither of them had done anything about them. And suddenly this feels even more tragic, the realisation of ‘could have been’. By now he is familiar with the streaks of wetness on his cheeks, every time he allows himself to cry the world seems to get more colour. But right now, when he sits silently sobbing in the darkness staring at the rifle, everything around him is pitch black.

 

The winter storms and the snow pass, Graeme invites him to live with him in the village, but John refuses. The silence of the hut in the wood has replaced the longing for traffic sound, and noises from a café or footsteps on stairs. Now he listens for a tap-tap of little paws on his roof, a rustle in the bushes, the voice of a bird. He wears the kilts of his grandfather now most of the time and is as far away as he could possibly get from Captain John Watson, army surgeon, or Dr. John Watson, crime solving assistant. He hasn’t read a single newspaper in months and not a clue if they still have the same prime minister. It seems that Sherlock was right, it’s not important who the Prime Minister is, it seems more important to get up every day and walk through the forest. By now his nightmares have changed, now he dreams of touching Sherlock, but every time he gets close enough to the beloved face it vanishes or he wakes up. He prefers the latter. It’s crap to wake up crying.

 

A family who gets lost in the forest brings a change. The daughter has climbed on a tree and broke her leg when she fell off. It’s the first time John practises medicine since the funeral. When they get her to the village the local doctor who has taken over Graeme’s surgery is impressed. He offers him a job and after a week John finds himself in a chair in front of a snivelling Mrs McKinley.

 

His job establishes a new pattern. Now he is in the village for two days when the doctor makes his house calls. It’s certainly not exciting, but he hasn’t realised how much he had missed this, practising medicine, being useful. A particular nasty flu brings half the village in the little surgery and John has more to do than he had in a very long time. When he sits in Graeme’s kitchen, eating cold roast he finds that he hadn’t thought about Sherlock the whole day. He panics, but when he tries to remember his friend everything is still sharp and vivid and this time to usual stab of pain in his guts is actually welcome. He absolutely can’t forget him.

 

The next spring brings a letter from Harry. John has no idea what to think of the writing itself, complaining mixed with self-pity, although he is thankful for the newspaper clippings. Sherlock’s name is cleared. He doesn’t read the details, only the headlines; he has no need for over-sensationalized stories. His relief is short-lived; the overwhelming sadness for the senselessness of Sherlock’s death almost brings him to his knees. He is thankful that he doesn’t need to work that day. When he finds himself staring longingly at the rifle, he goes to Graeme. The man doesn’t ask any questions, just sits with him in silence, sharing another bottle of Scotch. This time the vomiting helps him to get back out of the darkness.

 

Tourist season starts, the village is full of strangers. For the first time in his life he is thankful for his ordinary looks, some of the tourists eye him as if not knowing where to place him. He hides in plain sight, with a three-day-stubble and his kilt. It’s a lesson learnt from the best and it works, most tourists simply ask if they can take a photograph with him. He always declines. Tourist season brings him also more patients, he works now three days a week. It’s not awfully busy per se, but it keeps him occupied. As well as those wanderers that get lost in the woods, every other week he hands out beverages and directions to strangers in inappropriate clothing.

 

So the knock on the door is nothing unusual these days, but the man in front of the door is something completely unexpected. Grey eyes with dark circles under them over sharper cheekbones than he remembers, dark curls surrounding a pale face. A nasty cut on the forehead that started healing, the startling red of crusted blood against white skin. He can only stare, unable to comprehend what he sees. Carefully he tries to raise a hand and touch and the warmth is so startling, and suddenly the only thing he is aware of is the rush of blood in his ears and he sees this beautiful mouth move and the world narrows down to warm and alive and ‘Oh god’.

 

He wants to ask ‘How?’ and bury himself in the familiar coat, until everything makes sense again but he can’t move, can’t bring himself to let go of the spot of warm skin under his fingertips. He feels two hands at his elbows steering him back in the hut, carefully, until he feels the armchair at the back of his legs. He is sat down and the man in front of him lets go and he manages a hoarse ‘no’ before he grabs a corner of a familiar coat.

 

John is not quite sure how it happens, but suddenly Sherlock is sitting in his lap and John buries his face on a hard chest and inhales the achingly familiar scent of ‘Sherlock’. He grabs his friend by the hips in a probably bruising grip, but he can’t bring himself to care or even to let go. He feels two hands tentatively patting his back, before they stop and stay there as warm spots. He can hear the steady beat of a heart below him, feels the movement of every breath. Those sounds of live penetrate slowly his own dizziness and he is suddenly aware how close they are, closer than they have ever been before.

 

It starts a whole new round of dizziness, a totally different kind of blood rush and the feeling of alive, _alive_ , _ALIVE_ is singing in him. In the back of his mind he knows that things are not alright, that Sherlock has lied and left him in his personal hell which nearly destroyed him. But when he lifts his head and looks in those mesmerizing eyes, he reads the same kind of wonder and suddenly he tastes those lips for the first time and then he tastes this mouth and a mouth that is usually full of acid disdain and sharp deductions shouldn’t taste this sweet.

 

When they part for air, their eyes lock for a moment, before they close them again and the small distance between their lips is too far away. John’s hands find their way in silky curls and pulling a fragile neck impossibly closer while Sherlock shifts on his lap, creating a lovely kind of friction. They both discover around the same time the advantages of a kilt, although John never opted for the traditional routine. Their simultaneous gasps fill the air as well as harsh breathing, the rustle of removed clothing, moans when lips meet naked skin or hands caress a sensitive spot. When John grabs both of their cocks, establishing a fast rhythm it’s over all too soon.

 

Recovering from the orgasmic bliss, John feels the sticky mess of their come and sweat and the discomfort of their positions. He thinks of letting go, but he doesn’t want to ask ‘why’ and ‘how could you’ and ‘why didn’t you let me come with you’. He doesn’t want to talk about the past months, the darkness and the silence and the gun in his hand. Instead he says “I love you” and “Don’t leave me again” and although Sherlock says “No, no, never” more assuring is the almost violent hug in which he is caught.

 

Later that night he will stand at the door of his bedroom, watching this beautiful creature sleeping in his bed. Soft exhales mixing with the whispers of the wind. And John will try to match his own breathing to sounds coming from the bed. And for the first time in a long time he will feel happy again and the silence will be colourless again.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt from Valeria2067: John goes to an old family home in Scotland (while he recovers from Reichenbach). Starts living in the tiny hunting lodge in the woods. Kilt. Stubble. Sherlock finds him there and tries to explain why he jumped off the roof.


End file.
